Admit One


It’s 5 am, the heat builds. Thought comes in, unasked; this could be their Somme. This could be the slaughter of the young gone willingly to war, gone happily to dance. This could be their mustard-gas.

A night-club ticket, pass to the racecourse, the games, football, visa, boarding pass. The new white feather bought for birthday treat. 

They are not visible yet. The sick fathers, bereft wives who stare into space. Their children will cling, distanced and aware too early of death.

What is it that desires the death and disability of a whole generation?

All they want is to save the world. All I want is sleep.




Words and art
Pen Kease

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